


Reactions

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Choking, Crying, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub, Don't Like Don't Read, Double Penetration, Episode: s01e11 Alone Time, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Canon Compliant, Parent/Child Incest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Martin Whitly, Rape, Smut, Submission, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “My boy," Martin says. "Myboy. Mine.”Malcolm doesn’t reply. He can’t open his mouth or something he doesn’t want to let slip might come out.Something likeyes.Something likeyours.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins, Martin Whitly/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50
Collections: Anonymous





	Reactions

**Author's Note:**

> Alone Time...but spice it up. And add Martin because I said so.
> 
> edit: I really originally titled this something that didn't mean what I thought it did... dam

He knows it’s useless by now, but that doesn’t stop Malcolm from trying to escape.

He pulls on the shackles around his wrists that lock him to the headboard, twists in the dusty bed sheets, and does his best to dislodge the tape over his lips with his tongue.

They hold fast. The bed creaks but doesn’t give any indication of breaking anytime soon, and the second he thinks he’s going to get the gag off, the door opens and John Watkins is creeping towards him with a smirk.

“This is an old cabin,” he says. “You think we can’t hear the noises you’re making? Martin was betting you’d be free when we got up here, but...I picked those chains special for you.”

“Fuck you,” Malcolm mumbles, but his mouth isn’t quite free enough yet for it to be understood.

Still, John smiles, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Little Malcolm,” he says, settling his hand onto Malcolm’s ankle, “what do you think getting free will do for you, exactly? Do you think you’re going to run? Even if we were to let you go, do you know how far we are from anyone else?”

Malcolm really tries not to let the fear choke him, but that’s not what he wanted to hear. He swallows it back and kicks John’s hand off of him. They’d taken his coat, his shoes and socks, and he wouldn’t get far, but he’d get _away._ Even if he dies out there, alone in the snowy woods, it’d be better than whatever his father and John have planned for him here.

Murder, he can assume. And not his own, though he’d prefer it.

He doesn’t understand how Martin is here. He doesn’t understand how _he_ is here. It shouldn’t have gone so wrong. If he’d just answered Gil’s phone call...

The tape finally slides off halfway, and he spits.

“So good with your tongue,” John says, moving up closer, sitting by Malcolm’s waist now. “What else are you good with? Because I’ve been wanting to have some alone time with you for so long...and no one can hear you scream out here."

“Are you sure?” Malcolm asks, shaking his head roughly to peel the tape back further. “I’m a pretty good screamer. I've had a lot of practice.”

“Oh, I imagine you have,” John says. “And you know what? I’d just _love_ for you to give me a demonstration.”

And with that, he glides his hand up over Malcolm’s knee, up to his thigh, and Malcolm shouts, “No!” He kicks out, hard enough that John grunts in pain and stands up, and swears again. “Get off!”

“I’m trying to,” John says, grinning even as he rubs where Malcolm’s foot connected with his ribs, rounding the bed. “I’m not used to a fight. I think it might make it better.”

“My dad is down there,” Malcolm says, trying to kick him again when he gets close enough. “You think he’ll just—let you rape me? Is that your plan?”

John brings himself up to stand on the bed, hovering over Malcolm, and Malcolm tries to keep his breathing controlled.

“You’re the profiler, little Malcolm. You tell me. What am I thinking?”

Malcolm knows exactly what he’s thinking. He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he’d fucking stayed home. He wishes he’d never come back to New York in the first place. “You can’t. I’ll scream!”

“Go ahead. I just told you that’s what I want.” John brings his feet together on either side of Malcolm’s knees, and then drops himself down to straddle them, heavy enough that Malcolm can’t kick him off.

“Stop! Stop, stop!” Malcolm shouts, yanking on his arms and squirming as John pulls off Malcolm’s belt and yanks his pants down. “Fuck! No! _Dad!”_

John slaps the tape back down over his mouth and then rips his shirt open, kissing wherever he can as Malcolm screams himself hoarse behind the gag and yanks on the shackles with everything he has. “Shut up. Shut up! I’ll make it nice for you…”

“John.”

John freezes, lips against Malcolm’s stomach, and then sits up. He starts to pull himself off, and Malcolm manages to get one leg free enough to send it right between John’s legs while he’s distracted.

John’s breath leaves him audibly, and he topples off the bed and onto the floor.

It makes Martin laugh as he leans against the doorway.

“I told you not to underestimate him, dearest John...that it wouldn’t end well.”

Malcolm whimpers, pulling his knees together. John hadn’t taken down his boxers, but he’s still too exposed, and he looks at his father desperately.

“My boy,” he says, and there’s a glint in his eyes that Malcolm doesn’t recognize, that Malcolm doesn’t _like_. “You look positively pathetic.”

“Fuck,” John finally groans, grabbing onto the bed and dragging himself up to his knees. He glares at Malcolm, red-faced and wheezing, and then lunges at him. “I’ll fuckin’—”

_“John.”_

With just one word from Martin, one _command,_ John backs off. Malcolm is almost fascinated by it, by the utter control his father has over this man, but then they’re both just staring at him, and he lets out another, softer whimper.

“I’d like this transition to go as smoothly as possible,” Martin says, sitting beside Malcolm, and Malcolm flinches as Martin starts to stroke at his hair. It reminds him so much of when he was a child, the safety and comfort and love he felt back then...

“Really. You know I don’t want to have you chained up here, right? But I have to know you’ll behave. I don’t want to lose you again.”

He grabs Malcolm’s chin and forces Malcolm to look at him. It startles him, and he realizes just how relaxed he’d been from the soothing, familiar motion.

“I _won’t,_ ” he says, “lose you again. That’s not an option. Twenty years away from you...I won’t allow another second. Is that understood?”

Malcolm sucks air through his nose and finds himself nodding.

“That’s my boy,” Martin says, smiling. He glances down at Malcolm’s bare chest, and Malcolm flushes under the intensity of his gaze.

“Huh.” He sounds unhappy. It makes Malcolm’s heart beat harder. “Were you going to fuck him, John?”

John shifts around in the corner, like Martin had sent him there for timeout. Malcolm thinks he looks downright pitiful.

“Yeah,” John says.

Malcolm can only imagine what Martin might do to John. He thinks about Martin yelling. He thinks about Martin gutting the man right here. Anything to protect his son, just like always, right?

Instead Martin caresses Malcolm’s cheek and says, “You remember our discussion.”

“Yeah,” John says again.

“Then you remember perfectly well that you aren’t to lay a hand on him without _me_.”

Malcolm’s heart drops through to the floor. His breath catches, and then he starts to pant, shaking his head.

No, no... _what?_ What did that mean?

Martin’s hand slides down to his neck, and then to his chest, and Malcolm starts to struggle. “Mmm! Mmm!"

“What’s that?” Martin asks, and pulls the tape off.

“ _Help!_ ” Malcolm screams, so loud that he starts to cough. “H-h—ah—help!”

“Malcolm, my boy,” Martin says. “No one can hear you but us. It’s okay.”

Malcolm shakes, his hand trembling so hard the shackles rattle against the headboard. “N-n-no, you—this is to sc-scare me, right? G-good job! Because—because you wouldn't...because I’m—” He sobs when Martin pinches one of his nipples. “Stop! You—you c-can’t, you can’t, I’m—I’m your son!”

“Oh, but you’re so much more than that,” Martin says, leaning to press a kiss to his forehead. “You’re mine, Malcolm. You’re part of me. And I love you. But I could never show you how much _._ I wanted to. I know you know that. Every time you visited me...I know you felt something, too.”

Malcolm stares up at him, remembering if barely. The lingering glances, the brushes of touch, the offhandedly flirtatious remarks that Malcolm had laughed at only to find his face burning. He remembers the dreams that had started, the dreams he’d never told anyone about, not even his therapist, the ones he’d shoved down and ignored, the mornings he’d woken up with his boxers sticking to him and shame choking him.

“No,” he says. Those were dreams. Not reality. Those were dreams _,_ and this...this can’t be real either. It can’t be.

“You’re flushed, my boy,” Martin murmurs. “What are you thinking of?”

“No,” Malcolm repeats, because he doesn’t think he can say anything else. “No, no.”

“You don’t have to worry anymore,” Martin says, pressing another kiss to his temple. “I know how hard it’s been, all this time away from me. But I made you. You’re mine. You’re my beautiful boy. I can read you like a book, and I always have. And do you know what I’ve seen?”

He nips Malcolm’s earlobe, and Malcolm gasps.

“I’ve seen _reactions_ , my boy. And that’s really all I need, isn’t it? Because you’re certainly giving enough of them right now.”

Malcolm doesn’t look down at himself. He knows he’s hard, and he hates himself for it, hates himself even more as, when Martin moves his fingers down his chest, so gently, to his stomach, he groans.

“That’s right,” Martin says, kissing down to his neck, settling himself down beside him and reaching into his underwear to take him in his hand. “Relax…”

Malcolm jerks, fighting again. “No. Stop, you can’t, I don’t want—”

“You do,” Martin says. “We’re going to make you feel wonderful, my boy. So you’ll never want to leave again.”

It barely even registers that Martin had said _we_ before suddenly John is on his other side, wrapping an arm around his waist, and Malcolm screams again.

“Stop! Get away from me! Stop, stop, _stop!_ ”

John covers Malcolm's mouth, kissing down his arm, and groans, “Can I—?”

Martin grunts his approval, and John squeezes Malcolm’s cheeks, forces him into a kiss that makes him kick even harder. He manages to jerk his heel back far enough to hit John’s back, and John snarls.

"Martin!"

“I thought I heard you say it’s better when they fight,” Martin says, releasing Malcolm, and Malcolm can’t even be relieved because Martin’s hand is suddenly on John, and John moans softly right into Malcolm’s ear.

“Get...the fuck...away from me,” Malcolm gets out, somehow more disgusted at this display than anything else, and Martin chuckles.

“Hush, my boy. I told you. You’re going to feel good, too. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want to!” Malcolm says, and his voice cracks with the threat of tears. “Please, please, stop, I’ll—I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet! I won’t run! Just...not this, okay? Please!”

“Oh, but this isn’t punishment _,_ ” Martin says, propping himself up on an elbow to kiss at his jaw, and Malcolm holds his breath so he doesn’t moan. “It’s not, Malcolm. This is a reward. This is what we’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? What we could never have before? Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Tell me you’ve never wanted it.”

“I’ve never wanted it,” Malcolm whispers, and Martin smiles at him, nuzzles his cheek.

“You’re lying, my boy. I know you too well for that to work, now, don’t I? Tell me...did you ever think of me and touch yourself? Hmm? There you go blushing again...don’t be embarrassed...that’s how I really found out with John. Isn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” John grunts, rocking forward into Martin’s hand.

“Aren’t you just a little slut for me?”

“Aah, _yeah,_ ” John says, his arm moving from around Malcolm’s waist to grasp at Martin’s shirt. “Please…”

Martin sits up, and Malcolm is horrified to watch him kiss John over him. Malcolm’s going to vomit, he’s—

Not held down. He’s not held down at all. So he uses the chains around his wrists to pull himself up, sitting more against the headboard than he was before, and in the same moment jerks his knee up as hard as he can.

It hits under both of their chins, and Malcolm laughs as they gasp and jerk back. Blood drips onto his stomach, from one of them or both, and the offense on John’s face as he glares is hilarious.

Malcolm says, “ _Fuck_ you.”

And Martin produces a set of keys, unlocks one of Malcolm’s wrists, and says, “You probably shouldn’t have done that.”

Malcolm’s heart pounds in sudden fear, but he tries not to show it. He watches Martin go for the other shackle, and he doesn’t know why he’s being released when they must know now more than ever that he isn’t going to take this quietly, and then John grabs his ankles.

No. He doesn’t just grab them, he fastens two other metal shackles around them, and the chain between them is too short for him to kick out anymore. It keeps his feet together, and he’s so distracted by it that when Martin frees his other hand, he doesn’t struggle for the only second he has before Martin twists his arms, flips him onto his stomach, and pins him there.

Malcolm flails, crying out, but Martin easily cuffs his hands again, this time behind his back.

“Not as comfortable for you, I’m sorry,” Martin says, kissing under his hairline. “But necessary. If you’d just let me show you how much I love you, my boy…”

“You don’t love me! This isn’t love!”

“But it is, Malcolm,” Martin says, holding him by his shoulders and nuzzling into his hair. “Of course it is. I _promise_ it is. Let me prove it to you.”

He pulls away, and Malcolm sags against the bed, burying his face into the blanket.

Not real, this can’t be real...just another dream, another nightmare.

And then Martin flips him onto his back, holding a knife, and Malcolm gasps, “Dad—”

“Be still, my boy. If you squirm I might hurt you.”

“Deserves it,” John mutters, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to see if his lip has stopped bleeding yet, and Martin rolls his eyes before starting to slice away Malcolm’s sleeves.

As much as he wants to move, Malcolm doesn’t. He just gasps for air, his chest heaving, as Martin—as his _father—_ cuts his shirt away, and then his pants, and then...

“Please don’t,” he whimpers. “Dad. _Dad._ Please don’t.”

Martin kisses his nose, smiles at him, and far too happily slices off his boxers as well.

Malcolm drops his head back against the bed, eyes fixed somewhere above him. He shivers violently, from the cold air cooling the sweat on his skin and from the two sets of eyes he can feel boring into him as his own burn with tears.

“You’re beautiful, Malcolm,” Martin says, sounding awed in a way Malcolm has never heard before. It disgusts him, it...it makes him feel something else _,_ but he’s not sure what it is.

“I’ve created something incredible, haven’t I? Isn’t he perfect?”

“Pretty,” John agrees, and then he chokes, and Malcolm jerks his head up to see Martin with his hand around John’s neck.

“Perfect!” John corrects, forcing the word out, and Martin says, “Better,” and slams him against the wall with his own weight.

Malcolm looks around, his arms aching underneath him, but what can he do? He can’t fight, even if he had access to a weapon. He can’t run, even if he could get away from them.

He’s trapped, and it’s his own fucking fault because Gil had told him to call for backup, and once again he hadn’t.

His throat tightens, and he tries so hard to hold the tears back, but the second both of them turn their attention back to him Malcolm starts to cry.

“Oh, no...my boy.” Martin’s voice is so soft, reminding him again of when he was a child who thought everything in his life would turn out okay. Now it only scares him more, and he writhes as Martin comes closer.

“Don’t be sad. That’s not what I want. I want…”

He takes Malcolm in his hand and strokes him, and Malcolm only cries harder.

“Don’t cry. Here...let’s give you something else to focus on.”

“Please no,” Malcolm says as his father rolls him onto his stomach. “No, no...”

“You can stop pretending now, Malcolm,” Martin tells him, gently rubbing his back. “It’s okay. It’s just us. Just me. I’ll take such good care of you, like I’ve always wanted to. Like you’ve always wanted me to.”

Malcolm hears a bottle click open and John murmuring something he can’t make out, probably into Martin’s ear. One of Martin’s hands drifts down to the small of Malcolm’s back, and then the fingers of his other dip down to spread Malcolm’s cheeks, coated with something cold and wet.

“Quiet now,” he says as Malcolm gasps, kissing Malcolm’s head and shoulder. “It’s okay. I would never hurt you.”

“You’re hurting me,” Malcolm whimpers, and Martin huffs out a laugh.

“I promise you that I’m not. You’ll feel the same in a moment.”

He slips a finger into Malcolm, and Malcolm bites his lip and shuts his eyes tightly, sending more tears down his face.

“Malcolm...” Martin pushes in another finger, adjusts his grip, puts one of his legs over Malcolm’s and rolls his hips down, and Malcolm bites down harder. “My boy. _My_ boy. Mine.”

Malcolm doesn’t reply. He can’t open his mouth, or something he doesn’t want to let slip might come out.

Something like _yes._

Something like _yours._

Martin wiggles his fingers, adding another, and Malcolm tastes blood and finally stops biting down to gasp.

He wants to say _stop._

He wants to say _more._

Then Martin pulls them out and he can only whine.

“It’s okay.” Martin holds Malcolm’s waist, and Malcolm’s whole body flinches as he feels Martin’s cock pressing against his entrance. “It’s all okay, my boy.”

Malcolm doesn’t mean to but he cries out when Martin pushes in and he doesn’t know what it’s from. Pain, humiliation, fear, or _lust._ He feels it all.

Martin kisses his neck, praises him into his ear, the last of it trailing off into a groan that mixes with the lower, quieter one that Malcolm gives.

“Good boy. That’s my boy. Come here…”

Malcolm doesn’t understand the order until he realizes it’s not for him as John’s hands travel over him again, and he moans and shakes his head.

“Now, Malcolm,” Martin says, gently taking a handful of his hair. “Be a good boy. You’re mine, but so is John. You’re good for me, and you’ll be good for him if I tell you to. Won’t you?”

He slides out a bit, and then back in, and Malcolm throws his head back.

“Won’t you be good for Daddy?” Martin asks, but when Malcolm opens his mouth to reply John shoves his fingers into it, and Malcolm’s relieved because he doesn’t know what he was going to say, and he doesn’t trust whatever it was.

“You’re so pretty, little Malcolm,” John murmurs, and then, with a glance up at Martin, goes on with, “So perfect.”

Malcolm gags as John presses down against his tongue, scowling, and Martin pulls on his hair.

“I know you’re not going to bite him, right? Because you’re good. You’re always been a good boy. _My_ good boy. And because if you do, I’m going to pull out. But if you let him do what he wants, I’ll give you everything you need. How does that sound?”

Malcolm doesn’t respond.

Malcolm, instead, opens his mouth more.

“That’s what I thought,” Martin says, and then thrusts into him.

“ _Dad,_ ” Malcolm gasps unwillingly, and then John is standing by the edge of the bed, taking his hair and forcing his cock into Malcolm's mouth. Malcolm chokes, and John only shoves deeper, cursing.

“John,” Martin hisses, grabbing John’s hand and digging his nails in. “Let him breathe first.”

John pulls out and Malcolm pants for air and sputters, “W-wait, I don’t want—”

“Yes, you do,” Martin says, much more sternly. “You do, Malcolm. Remember our deal. Take some breaths. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Malcolm sobs but obeys, and when Martin apparently decides he’s breathed enough he gestures with a hand and John slides between Malcolm’s lips as Martin starts to thrust again.

“Fuck...little Malcolm,” John groans, leaning forward, and he guides Malcolm’s head back and forth a few times before his hands leave Malcolm’s head and instead grasp at Martin. Malcolm only knows because Martin is suddenly pulled forward mid-thrust with a surprised grunt, and he braces one of his hands on Malcolm’s back.

“M-Martin…”

“So needy,” Martin says, reaching out to stroke under John’s chin. “Am I not giving you enough?”

“Want _you…_ ”

“I know, dear.” With that he takes John by his throat, pulls him forward and kisses him.

Malcolm can’t breathe. He pulls on his hands and tries to speak but both of them are moving in and out of him, and in spite of it all he’s achingly hard. He can’t move, but with every thrust into him he receives friction from the bed beneath him, and heat starts to build in his stomach.

He moans around John, gagging and desperate to get air, but they seem to have forgotten he’s even there. Martin is only paying attention to John even despite his promise. There are tears down his cheeks again, black dots in his vision, and then…

Suddenly he’s gasping and hands are cupping his cheeks, and Martin is murmuring to him, no longer inside of him.

“It’s alright...just breathe...”

Malcolm coughs, spitting, and groans, “Pl...please...n...no more…”

“I’m sorry, my boy. He won’t do that again, alright? Maybe later when we’re not so distracted. But for now, just try to breathe.”

Malcolm is relieved, chest heaving as he catches his breath, and then he cries out as he feels Martin pressing against him again.

“Hush. You’re a good boy.”

And then John is there, too, and Malcolm shouts, “No! Not him!”

“Don’t worry,” Martin says. “Even after, you’ll still only be _Daddy’s_ boy.”

Malcolm shoves his face down, muffles his scream into the blanket as they both push into him.

He wants to say stop.

But he just doesn’t say anything.

No sound that comes out of him is coherent, and he’s horrified yet unsurprised to find himself hard again. By now he guesses he should expect it. His body wants this, his subconscious has clearly always wanted this. He should just...give into it. Give into them. Give into his father _._

They don’t touch him, caught up behind him, and Malcolm doesn’t have to see them to know he’s just being used. They don’t care that he’s there. They don’t care about him at all. It was all a trick to get him to behave, so they could do this.

His father doesn’t love him. This isn’t love. This is something sick, something wrong.

He still comes hard, untouched, crying against the blanket. And still they come on and inside of him, up his back and down his thighs...and by the time they’re finally leaving him alone he’s hard again.

He moans despairingly, and Martin’s hands are all over him again.

“Malcolm,” he pants as he places breathless kisses between Malcolm’s shoulders. “My Malcolm...I’m so sorry...I didn’t give you any attention, did I? And I promised I would...but I can’t go again right now.”

“T-t—” Malcolm chokes, and then bites his lip, reopening the wound there and bleeding down his chin.

“What was that?”

His fingers slip inside him again, his other hand fondling between his legs, and Malcolm gasps out, “Touch me!”

Martin laughs against his skin, and it makes Malcolm shudder.

“You’ll have to ask me nicer if you want to be rewarded.”

Malcolm grunts, shaking his head, and then Martin bites down into Malcolm’s shoulder and Malcolm chokes out, “ _Please!_ ”

Martin’s tongue laps at the mark, and Malcolm could probably, eventually, come from that sensation alone, but he can’t wait that long.

“That’s good, Malcolm, but not what I wanted. You know what I want to hear.”

John’s hands are on him too now, manipulating pleasure out of him, and he hates how good it all feels with his body so sensitive. He writhes, groaning, and then finally gasps out, “ _Daddy.”_

Martin exhales harshly against his skin, and it makes him tremble.

“That’s my boy,” he says. “My perfect boy.”

He flips Malcolm back over onto his back, cupping his chin and kissing him.

Malcolm moans against his lips, fights briefly to pull away, and then parts his mouth, lets Martin’s tongue in and kisses back.

Like he’s dreamt of, like he’s wanted to for years, for far too long _,_ he kisses back.

Martin rewards him by reaching down to take Malcolm’s cock in his warm hand. “You’ve already come once...but you’ve been _so_ good for us...for me _…_ and you’re going to keep being good, aren’t you? No more fighting. No more screaming. You’ll come downstairs and work with us like a good boy, won’t you?”

Malcolm whines, “Okay...” but he doesn’t mean it. He won’t kill. He won’t do what they want. He will never stop fighting that as long as he’s here.

But not this. This is something he can’t fight. Not anymore.

This is something he doesn’t _want_ to fight. Not anymore.

He just wants...

“Daddy, _please!”_

Martin smiles and kisses him again, jacks him off until Malcolm is kicking and writhing underneath him, moaning loud and uncontrolled into Martin’s mouth.

“My perfect boy,” Martin says. “Come for Daddy.”

Malcolm does, with a cry.

With shame, and, far worse, pleasure, much more than he wants to feel.

When he comes back to himself, he’s lying on his side. Only one of his hands is cuffed back to the headboard, and Martin is cradling his body against him. John isn’t there anymore.

He feels horrified, and he feels content.

He feels disgusted, and he feels safe.

“Dad…” he rasps, and Martin nuzzles him.

“Hush, my boy. We have so much time to catch up. All the time in the world. Because I love you, Malcolm. I always have.”

Not love. This isn’t love. This can’t be love.

“I love you, Malcolm.”

It’s not...it can’t be…

Martin presses a kiss to his temple, and whispers it again.

“I love you.”

He then asks, “You’ve always loved me too, haven’t you?”

Malcolm wants to say _go to hell._

He wants to say _you’ve ruined me._

He wants to say _you’re a monster._

He instead closes his eyes and shakily says, “Yes.”

And worse than anything else, he means it.


End file.
